


The Inescapable Luminescence of Fate

by allonsys_girl



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Harry Potter Next Generation, Harry Potter References, M/M, Potterlock, Teen John, Teen Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 08:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5912902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allonsys_girl/pseuds/allonsys_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is entering his sixth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, while his older brother Mycroft is a rising star at the Ministry, learning his craft as an Auror from the famous Harry Potter himself. When a series of mysterious and high-profile disappearances seem to have a connection to Hogwarts, Mycroft calls in his baby brother to assist him in solving the case. What Sherlock's unprepared for is falling in love with the prime suspect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CaitlinFairchild](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitlinFairchild/gifts).



> ***This is currently rated teen, that will most definitely change to explicit later on.***
> 
> Also I will be finishing this before working on anything else, so this will not be a WIP for long.

The Victorian spires of St Pancras Station loom forebodingly against the grey of an early autumn thunderstorm, as Sherlock steps out of the cab and shoulders his heavy rucksack. The weight throws him off balance and he loses his footing slightly, trapped in the gutter between the kerb and the side of the car. He grabs at the door, cursing. Sharp claws dig into his neck as he stumbles.

“Alchemy! You’re breaking skin,” he mutters, reaching into the collar of his jacket to poke at the fat white rat curled up underneath.

The rat nips reprimandingly at Sherlock’s index finger, but withdraws his claws, settling down once again against Sherlock’s neck with a low squeak.

“Spoiled, you are,” Sherlock shakes his head and moves round the back of the cab to retrieve his trunk from the boot.

As he crosses Euston Road, he sees familiar faces amongst the hoards of Muggles. He hoists his bag higher on his shoulder and starts ticking off a mental checklist of every fellow Hogwarts student he sees heading towards King’s Cross to catch the train. There's Violet Brompton, Ravenclaw prefect, probably future Minister of Magic, and absolute fuckwit. And Steven Moorgate, Gryffindor, terrible at Potions but nearly took top of the year in Transfiguration last year, which infuriated Sherlock to no end. He's still glaring at Moorgate when he catches the familiar form of James Moriarty, sixth year Slytherin and _former_ best mate, crossing the crowded street and heading straight towards him. He immediately averts his eyes when he notices Sherlock and changes course, swerving to the left and looking down at the pavement as he passes him.

Sherlock sneers at the back of James’ head as it disappears around a corner into the station, and checks his watch. He’s got a half an hour until the Hogwarts Express even arrives at Platform 9 and ¾. Enough time for a coffee and a cigarette. There’s a Costa right in front of him. Perfect.

He’s got his hand on the door handle to pull it open when it swings out and nearly bashes him full in the face. He jerks his head back just in time.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! I - _oh_ , hi, Sherlock!”

“Hullo, Molly.”

Molly Hooper, Hufflepuff prefect and one of Sherlock’s rather small circle of close friends. Competitive with Sherlock at Potions and Arithmancy, and quite good company sometimes late at night when everyone else’s gone off to bed. Good at chess.

“You getting a coffee?” Molly continues brightly, still standing directly in Sherlock’s way.

“I was attempting to, yes.” Sherlock forces a smile, the kind that usually scares people. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Molly, except that he really _doesn’t_ at the moment.

His last moments of solitude before entering the chaotic bustle of life at Hogwarts are precious, and he doesn't want to share them. The six hour train ride to Hogsmeade station is always nearly intolerable for Sherlock; it takes him time to readjust to the constant thrum of other people after being essentially a hermit during breaks.

Molly doesn’t seem to notice his indifference to her company. She just steps aside to let Sherlock through the door and then falls into step beside him as he queues up at the counter.

“Are you excited about sixth year? I can’t wait to learn how to Apparate, _finally_. Mum and Dad’ll be so pleased when we can just Apparate places instead of fussing with Floo Powder and Portkeys and all that. Aren’t you excited?” Molly pauses to catch a breath, looking at Sherlock expectantly.

“My parents are Muggles, so Apparition isn’t really an issue for family travel,” Sherlock says dryly, wondering when exactly it was that he’d invited Molly to have coffee with him.

“I forgot. But still, Apparition! And NEWT classes, can you believe it? I’m still taking Potions, of course…”

Sherlock lets her carry on, dropping a pointedly disinterested _hmmmm_ every now and then.

Once he’s gotten his cappuccino, they head back outside, where the pavement is marked with fat splotches of rain. The clouds above are pitch black. Alchemy shivers against Sherlock’s nape, snuggles closer.

He’s got to have a cigarette before he goes into King’s Cross. But the sky is about to open up, and he doesn’t fancy getting soaked to the skin. He flattens himself against the soot smeared brick, hoping the rain will hold off for just five more minutes, and fumbles in his jacket pocket for his smokes. He shakes one out and lights it with a match, fighting the urge to pull out his wand and light it as he would at school.

Molly wrinkles her nose. “Those Muggle things smell terrible. What do you call them again?”

“Cigarettes. And you’re wrong. They smell _fantastic_ ,” Sherlock mumbles around the filter between his lips, taking a long, deep drag. “I’ve got enough in my trunk to last until Christmas holidays.”

Molly shakes her head and sticks out her tongue, long amber coloured braids bouncing against her shoulders, “Well. You enjoy that. I’m going to go ahead to the platform, see if I can find Mike or anyone. See you on the train, Sherlock!”

He gives Molly a half-hearted wave and sips his cappuccino, taking another drag before he’s swallowed completely, so the flavours of both tobacco and espresso mingle together across his tongue. It’s sinfully good, and he sighs, sinking back against the wall. Alchemy jerks awake, scrambles out of his collar and takes a spot on Sherlock’s shoulder instead, sitting up on his hind legs and sniffing the air.

“What do you make of them, Alchemy, hmm?” Sherlock follows the rat’s line of sight, watches a group of obvious first years dragging heavy trunks over the pavement and looking terrified, a gaggle of parents in poorly put together Muggle outfits trailing after them. “Another bunch of useless future Ministry drones, or does anyone look promising?”

The rat squeaks and lifts his nose in the air, which Sherlock takes as agreement with the former.

“Same every year.”

The clouds move more swiftly now, gathering black and heavy right over top the station, and the wind picks up, blowing bits of paper and leaves up out of the gutters. A fat drop of rain hits Sherlock in the eye as he turns his face up to the sky and exhales a long plume of smoke. Another drop blots the face of his watch as he checks the time. 10:48am.

“Alright. Time to go in, I suppose.” He locates a bin with an overflowing ashtray tucked in the side, and stubs out the cigarette. Alchemy slips gracefully back into his favourite spot, only his eyes visible, glittering black over the edge of Sherlock’s collar.

The group of first years is slowly making their way through the barrier to Platform 9 and ¾, their parents assuring them they won’t bash head first into a brick wall, and all of them looking dubious.

Idiots. All of them.

He pushes past them with a smug grin, ignoring their goggling stares, and leans casually against the brick. With only a hint of resistance, he slips through the barrier and emerges into the cacophonous jumble of people, animal cages and rolling trunks that is Platform 9 and ¾ at the beginning of term.

Despite himself, he feels a surge of deepest fondness for all of this, for the chaos and the noise, for the familiar sight of the Hogwarts Express gleaming scarlet against the blackened brick. Everyone’s shouting at old friends, jostling each other as they say goodbye to their parents and siblings. It smells like clean laundry and coal smoke, pumpkin pasties and machine oil. A peculiar and singular mixture of scents that stir within him the memory of every September the first since he was eleven years old.

That first year, Sherlock tiny and thin, smaller than any other first years, pathetically clinging to Mycroft’s hand, had felt suddenly at ease, for the first time in his life. He still remembers the feeling of being surrounded by people that were _like him_ , people that understood and appreciated his extraordinary abilities. It was exhilarating.

Mycroft’s letter had come when Sherlock was just four years old. Their Muggle parents at first thought it was an elaborate prank arranged by the children who teased him so mercilessly at school. But when the letters went unanswered, Headmistress McGonagall showed up at their doorstep herself, explaining to the stunned Holmeses that Hogwarts was in fact a very real - and well-respected - school, and that both their boys were wizards. Sherlock had sat perched on his father’s knees, serenity and pride washing over him as he understood at last that all the strange things he and Mycroft could do together, all the powers Sherlock had never quite had control over, had a _meaning_ , that he and Mycroft weren’t weird. They were _special._

But Hogwarts was an overwhelming place for an anxious and naturally solitary child like Sherlock. It was made more difficult when he was sorted into Hufflepuff and separated from his Slytherin older brother. Without the consistency of Mycroft’s comforting presence, he'd had to socialise by himself for the first time in his life, and found he was rather horrible at it. He's only managed to make a few close friends in all his years here - Molly, Mike Stamford, James, who doesn't really count anymore, and -

Rose Weasley brushes past him with a bright grin, her flaming orange curls a frizzy halo around her pale face. “Hiya, Sherlock!”

“Hey, Rose.” Sherlock finds himself naturally falling into step behind her, following her up to the entrance of the nearest car.

Over the last school year, Rose grew from an acquaintance to become his closest friend at Hogwarts. She’s clever and fearless and has a wry sense of humour that Sherlock finds utterly charming. They’d written to one another over the break, mostly discussing summer homework and the impending N.E.W.T. classes. Rose plans to be an Auror, like her uncle Harry Potter, a profession for which perfect N.E.W.T.s are a must.

“Found a compartment yet?” Rose calls over her shoulder, lugging her heavy black trunk up into the train.

“No, just got here.”

“Hugo and my cousins already have one. Sit with us, yeah?”

“Alright.”

The corridor of the train is swarming with people. It’s claustrophobic. Sherlock breathes deep, feels Alchemy rubbing a cool wet nose up into his hairline. Rose leads the way to a compartment halfway down the car. Inside are Rose’s brother Hugo, their cousins Albus and Lily Potter, and John Watson, a sixth year Gryffindor who Sherlock’s never had any reason to be in close proximity to before now. All four Gryffindor faces turn to look at them.

John’s gaze flicks up to meet Sherlock’s, and all the breath leaves Sherlock’s lungs as swiftly as though he’s been punched in the stomach. He’s gorgeous, undoubtedly, but that’s not it. There’s something dark and complicated lurking inside those dazzlingly blue eyes, something Sherlock wasn’t expecting to see in the face of the wildly popular Quidditch team captain. He expected vapid and useless, and instead there’s real intelligence. Depth. Ferocity. Something darker. _Fascinating_.

“Hufflepuffs allowed in this compartment, or shall we piss off down the train car?” Rose purses her lips and cocks an eyebrow at John.

“Piss off,” John grins, eyes shifting away from Sherlock’s, and immediately gets up to take Rose’s trunk. He stretches up to toss it on the luggage rack above their heads, his tee shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of toned stomach, pale skin above the waist of his jeans. He flops back in his seat, his short muscular legs stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed.

“What a gentleman, Watson,” Rose smirks, and kicks him in the shin as she sits down. “I could have done that myself, you know.”

“I was just trying to give you something to look at, Weasley.” John winks at her, all sparkling blue eyes and white teeth.

Rose throws her head back and cackles, sticks her tongue out at him. “Shut the hell up.”

Sherlock’s still standing in the doorway, and feeling horribly out of place. Rose is one thing. She’s in Sherlock’s house, for starters, and she’s usually not surrounded by half her - very Gryffindor - family and a handsome Quidditch star whose presence is currently making Sherlock’s palms sweaty. Weasleys and Potters tend to stick together, and rarely do other people manage to get inside their tight knit ranks. Watson obviously has. The easy camaraderie between everyone here - and Sherlock’s complete inability to function in groups - is making his anxiety spiral.

He swallows, trying not to let the mounting tension show on his face.

“You all know Sherlock Holmes,” Rose smiles up at him encouragingly. She knows how he loathes making small talk, pretending to be sociable.

“You’re Mycroft Holmes’ brother.” Lily Potter looks at him approvingly. “My dad says he’s brilliant.”

“He is, yeah.” Pride swells fierce in Sherlock’s chest. Mycroft has advanced at the Ministry faster than any witch or wizard in a century.

John looks from Lily to Sherlock, biting thoughtfully into his lower lip, and then shuffles sideways to make room on the bench. “Well? You coming in, or what?”

“Oh. Um. Yes.” Sherlock finally steps over the threshold and makes to hoist his trunk up to the rack. It hits the lip of the shelf and he fumbles it, nearly knocking himself in the teeth with the metal corner. Alchemy’s claws scrabble at his shoulder blades.

John leaps from his seat again and grabs the bottom, stabilising it and helping Sherlock shove it up into place.

“Thanks.” Sherlock manages to mutter, his cheeks crimson with embarrassment. _I want to die, to sink down into this carpet and fucking die. Or at least have a goddamned cigarette._

“Yeah, no problem.” John says softly, his tongue caught between his teeth. His face is very close.

They stare at each other for a moment, Sherlock unable to look away from the lightning shaped grey streaks in those indigo eyes, the sweep of long golden eyelashes around them. They’re the most interesting eyes Sherlock’s ever seen. John finally lifts his eyebrows and sniffs, breaking whatever spell had come over them. He clears his throat and sits back down.

Everyone in the compartment is watching them.

_Ten minutes into sixth year and I’ve already managed to look a complete fool. Fantastic._

There’s nowhere to sit except next to John. Sherlock folds himself up as small as he can manage, leaning up against the wall, and angles his thighs away from John’s. He glances down, estimating the space between them, and instead finds himself looking at the swell of John’s vastus lateralis muscle in his snug-fitting jeans.

“I have a double deck of Exploding Snap. Who wants to play?” Hugo reaches into canvas bag rumpled on the floor between his feet, and pulls out a pack of cards.

A chorus of voices erupt in agreement, and a wave of relief sweeps over Sherlock as Hugo begins shuffling the deck. He’s not going to be forced into conversation with everyone. _Thank god._

Alchemy squirms up from under his jacket collar and drops down onto his lap, looking around curiously.

“Oooh, hi, Alchemy,” Rose coos at him, holding her hand out across the space between the benches. “I was wondering where you were hiding him, Sherlock.”

“He gets nervous around crowds.” Sherlock lifts the rat and plops him into Rose’s hand. He runs up her arm and settles on her shoulder, nibbling the ends of her curls affectionately.

The tension in Sherlock’s shoulders and belly slowly uncoil, as the voices around him become like a hum, a noise at once familiar and undemanding. He doesn’t have to participate, just sit there, and let it roll over him like water. Rose plays with Alchemy, talks to him in a baby voice that would annoy Sherlock nearly to death if it was anyone else, and he relaxes enough to lean against the cushioned seatback and allow himself to feel happy about going back to Hogwarts.

He supposes every student must feel like Hogwarts is truly home, whilst still at school, but he knows Muggleborns feel it more acutely. Children of Wizarding families leave between terms and go to homes filled with spellbooks and brooms, magical creatures, shelves overflowing with potion bottles. While they’re still not permitted to perform their own magic, at least they’re surrounded by it.

Sherlock goes home to his father’s probing questions about _what it is they DO_ at Hogwarts, and his mother’s fussing that he’s not learning anything that will get him a job, no matter how many times he’s explained that he won’t be _looking_ for a job in the Muggle world. He goes home to a world where magic is unfathomable, where he’s even more out of place than usual. Being away from Hogwarts aches, like a gaping wound in his chest. It’s a relief to be headed back.

Lily’s just begun telling the story of her father’s latest successful capture of wizard wanted for experimentation on Muggles, when the train lurches suddenly into motion.

“Finally. I thought we were never going to get moving,” mutters Albus, pressing his long nose against the window and waving, presumably at his parents, as they rumble slowly forward.

“Where’s the Honeyduke’s Express trolley, is all I’m worried about,” John yawns and stretches, bumping Sherlock’s shoulder with his elbow. “Sorry. I’m starving.”

“You’re always starving,” Rose says teasingly, looking up from rubbing Alchemy’s belly and grinning. “If you weren’t always playing Quidditch, you’d weigh about twenty stone.”

“I am a very serious athlete, Rose. I need to keep up my strength,” John says with mock solemnity, and then his face crinkles as he bursts out laughing. “Ah, shit, I’m going to take a nap. Wake me when she comes with the trolley, yeah?”

“We’ll see, Watson. I wouldn’t count on it.” Rose goes back to petting the now sleeping rat in her lap, winking at Sherlock.

“Sherlock’ll wake me, won’t you? _You_ won’t let me starve.” John glances at him out of the side of his eye, licks over his bottom lip and follows with his teeth.

Sherlock’s stomach swoops unexpectedly, and he stammers a mumbled, “I - I’ll wake you up.”

“Ta.” John smiles and shuts his eyes, crosses his arms over his belly. “I knew I could count on Sherlock.”

The rest of the early afternoon passes uneventfully. Albus, Hugo, and Lily play Exploding Snap and compare Famous Witch and Wizard Card collections, while John snores quietly beside Sherlock. Rose and Sherlock both eventually pull out textbooks to study a bit, and before long, it’s 1pm and the Honeydukes trolley is pulling up outside their compartment.

“John. John, wake up,” Sherlock jostles him gently, feeling awkward about touching someone he barely knows when he’s asleep, but John did want to be woken.

“Hmmm? What?” John blinks at Sherlock and yawns, his cheeks very pink. “Oh. Food. Thanks, Sherlock.”

“Sure.” Sherlock tries very hard not to blush, feeling terribly wrong-footed and confused about what’s going on inside him right now. When John, rather sleepily, shoves a Cauldron Cake in his hand as a thank you, he can’t even bring himself to tell John he hates the damned things, and he just eats it.

Rose smiles knowingly at him, and he averts his eyes, staring out the window at the darkening sky instead.

***

By the time they reach Hogwarts, the sky has gone inky black, the stars scattered pinpricks of white. The soaring steeples and arches of the castle shimmer in the distance, surrounded by the ring of towering trees that form the border of the Forbidden Forest.

Nothing is as darkly, dangerously beautiful as Hogwarts and the grounds at night, thinks Sherlock as he heaves his bag over his shoulder and begins trudging up the steep slope to the entrance hall. Rose comes up beside him and threads her arm through his.

“So. Watson.” She sounds smug as hell.

Sherlock spits out, “Shut up.”

She laughs and squeezes his forearm. “It’s cute, you having a crush.”

“I do _not_ have a crush.” Sherlock tries to wrench his arm out of hers, but she tightens her grip and leans her head against his shoulder.

“He’s hot.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Sherlock grits through clenched teeth.

“He’s into guys. Just. So you know.” Rose shrugs, and Sherlock can _hear_ the look on her face.

“Why would I need to know that?” He tries to sound nonchalant.

“No reason at all.” Rose plants a kiss on his cheek and skips away up the hill, her robes billowing in the wind.

Sherlock watches her go, his lips tight, jaw clenched. She’s right, of course, of _course_ she is. John spent the entire train ride being disgustingly charming, and kind, and funny, and repeatedly glancing at Sherlock in a way that made his heart plummet into his stomach every time. A _crush_. How plebian. How _boring_.

Anyway John Watson would never be interested in him. They’re worlds apart; the popular, gorgeous jock, and the weird, bookish loner. No. No, they’re not compatible in the least. Sherlock shakes his head and takes a deep breath. Better just forget about those big blue eyes and concentrate on his N.E.W.T.s. Much more important.

He scrubs his hands through his hair and follows the crowd of students as they narrow to mount the stone stairs into the castle. A blonde head of hair stands out in the crowd, even though John’s a half a foot shorter than everyone around him. His hair glows golden in the torchlight, the square edge of his jaw accentuated by deep shadows as he turns and laughs loudly at the person standing next to him. Sherlock watches him, unaware he’s biting into his bottom lip until he tastes blood.

Sighing heavily, he forces himself to look away, and surreptitiously licks the blood from his mouth. Yes, N.E.W.T.s are much more important.

***

The first few days of term pass in a blur, as they usually do. Determining the best routes to get to classes on time, and readjusting to the daily load of homework after a long summer without it, is dizzyingly exhausting. The first Friday of term, Sherlock finds himself half dozing by the fire in the Hufflepuff common room, the rosy light of sunset filtering down through the freshly cleaned round windows. He stretches his bare feet out on the warm wooden floorboards and rolls up the parchment he’d been working on for Potions. It can wait, not due for a week, anyway. The fire crackles and spits, flickering hypnotically against the copper coloured brick of the hearth.

“Coming to dinner, Sherlock?”

He jolts up, which isn’t particularly easy in the huge squashy armchair he’s sitting in. He must have fallen asleep watching the fire. “Um.”

Molly Hooper is standing next to him, her eyes merry, her brown hair done up in a messy bun on top of her head. Rose, and Sherlock’s dorm mate Mike Stamford, are hovering by the barrel that serves as the door to the Hufflepuff dormitory. Mike’s chubby and always smiling, excellent at Herbology and rubbish at nearly everything else, but Sherlock’s always liked him. They get on easily, and Mike never seems bothered by Sherlock’s moodiness.

“Yeah, come on, Sherlock. It’s Friday night, leave off the homework for a bit, nerd.” Rose smirks at him and nudges the barrel door open with her foot.

“Yes, alright,” Sherlock stretches, aware suddenly that his stomach is rumbling rather insistently. “Let me get my shoes back on.”

The Great Hall is bustling with noise, louder and more chaotic than it would be on a weeknight. As the four of them weave their way to the Hufflepuff table, they pass by the Gryffindor table, and Sherlock’s gaze is drawn like a magnet to where John Watson is sitting with his two best mates, Greg Lestrade and Paul Dimmock. Sherlock hasn’t talked to him at all since the train ride to school, he has no reason to. But it’s like a physical ache, watching him laughing with his friends, obviously not bothered about Sherlock the way Sherlock’s helplessly bothered about him.

Albus Potter walks up behind John and sits down next to him, says something and inclines his head towards Sherlock. John turns round, and their eyes meet for just a second before Sherlock looks away, his face on fire. _What **is** it about John Watson? _ Sherlock’s never been so distracted by anyone before. It’s maddening, the way John’s crept into his consciousness, made a home inside Sherlock like he belongs there.

Rose looks as though she’s about to say something.

“Just. Shut up.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and pokes his finger between her shoulder blades to make her move.

“What?” Mike looks around as though he’s missed something.

Molly grins as they slide into the benches at the Hufflepuff table and start loading their plates. “Sherlock _fancies_ someone.”

A rush a white hot humiliation floods through Sherlock, and he rounds on Rose. “You told Molly?”

Rose has the good grace to look at least a bit ashamed. “It just sort of - slipped out. I didn’t think you would mind.”

“Well, I _do_ mind. I don’t even _know_ if I fancy him, I don’t - it’s not as though anything’s going to come of it anyway. I mean. _Look at him_. Gryffindor golden boy, and look at me.” Sherlock shakes his head and reaches for a giant slab of chicken and ham pie. “I don’t want to talk about it anymore, Rose. Just. _Don’t_.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Honestly.” For once, her smirking face is serious. She looks genuinely apologetic.

“It’s alright. It’s fine. Just drop it.” Sherlock tucks in, avoiding his friends’ eyes, feeling fuzzy-headed and irritable.

This isn’t who he is. He doesn’t get hung up on _boys._ He doesn’t get _embarrassed_. He doesn’t sit in front of the fireplace and wonder what someone else is doing at that moment, whether they’re thinking of him or not. He’s Sherlock Holmes, for fuck’s sake. He’s the top of his year, beats every Ravenclaw in exams, practically outwits the professors in Potions and Arithmancy. His brother is Mycroft Holmes, rising star in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, mentored by Harry Potter himself. The two of them are going to be important, the unstoppable Holmes brothers. They’re going to revolutionise the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, the Ministry itself.

And John Watson is just a distraction. He’s got to put him out of his mind and focus on his work. That’s what matters.

“I still don’t even know who we’re talking about.” Mike says, shrugging, and tucks into a Yorkshire pudding with gusto.

Even Sherlock bursts out laughing.

The rest of dinner passes companionably, Sherlock’s bad mood dissolving as they discuss their new classes, new teachers. The new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher, Sally Donovan, is young, only having graduated from Hogwarts five years previous. She’s spent the intervening years travelling and learning from Aurors and Magical Creatures experts across the globe. She knows an enormous amount about the Dark Arts, and most importantly, she doesn’t treat them like children. Sherlock likes her almost immediately.

Mike goes on about Herbology, which Sherlock no longer takes, and he and Molly fall into a conversation about the essay they have due for Potions, on the complicated process of brewing Felix Felicis. The dinner plates magically disappear, replaced by pudding and coffee - Sherlock’s decidedly favourite parts of any meal - and he’s so busy digging into a particularly good chocolate gateau and talking to Molly that he nearly forgets all about John Watson.

But as they’re leaving the Great Hall after dinner, John brushes past him with a wink and flashes that dazzling smile. “Hiya, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s stomach churns, and he fumbles to even get out a hello.

Albus tugs on John’s robes, pulling towards the opposite end of the Great Hall. “Come on, John, you said we were going to practice with the Snitch tonight, remember?”

“Yeah, alright, Albus, _alright_. Get off.” He gives his arm a shake, still smiling, and waves, walking backwards into the entrance hall, his small frame dwarfed by the giant oak doors.

Even from the across the span of the entire room, Sherlock can see his laughing eyes, the way he lingers at the doorway. Sherlock lifts his hand to wave, and then John’s gone, shepherded out by Albus and Greg. Sherlock’s heart is hammering. _John Watson is definitely going to be a problem._

“I know you said you don’t want to talk about it,” Molly says tentatively, hours later, as they’re sitting cross-legged on the common room floor with a game of Wizard Chess between them. She takes a deep breath and looks up at Sherlock, the glow of the dying embers in the fireplace making long shadows across her face. “But I think John likes you.”

Sherlock shoots Molly the most withering stare he can muster. “It’s your move.”

“It’s just,” she murmurs, taking one long braid into her hands and smoothing it nervously over her shoulder, “You’re always alone, I mean, except for us, and. Well. I think he could be good for you, you know. Just, promise me you’ll think about it.”

“Molly. I don’t need a _boyfriend_ ,” Sherlock says scathingly, looking away from her, into the fireplace.

“I didn’t say you did. But John’s nice. He’s sweet. And good looking, and -”

“Why don’t you date him then?”

“Because he doesn’t like me. He likes _you_.” Molly says quietly, her luminous amber eyes searching Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond as viciously as he can that this is absolutely none of Molly’s business and if she doesn’t damned well play the game instead of moon over boys, he’s going to bed, but before he can speak, he’s interrupted by a furious tapping at one of the small round windows that ring the Hufflepuff common room.

Both he and Molly turn to see a huge tawny owl clicking his beak against the glass, clearly irritated that neither of them has jumped up to open the window yet. Sherlock recognises it instantly as a Ministry owl.

“What on earth is an owl doing delivering the post at one in the morning?” Molly says curiously, making no move to actually let the owl in.

Sherlock jumps to his feet in one fluid motion, and strides across the room. He stretches up on his tiptoes to reach the high window, and unfastens the brass latch. The owl elegantly slips through and flutters to the nearest table, a scarred round oak one they usually use for homework. He’s got a small parchment roll tied to his left ankle, and he lifts his foot to call Sherlock’s attention to it.

“For me, yes?” Sherlock reaches for it, but doesn’t touch it until the bird rolls his large eyes as if to say _yes, obviously_. “Thank you.”

The tawny nods as he takes off, soaring silently through the window and into the darkness.

There’s only one person who would be sending Sherlock a letter from the Ministry in the middle of the night. Sherlock slips his finger under the flap to break the wax seal and unrolls the parchment. Sure enough, his brother’s narrow scrawl, just one line of text.

_Common room fire, tomorrow 3am, make sure you’re alone. M._

“What is it, Sherlock?” Molly moves towards him, her eyes on the letter.

“Nothing. Just my brother wondering how the first week of school went.” Sherlock throws her a smile and yawns exaggeratedly. “I think I’m for bed, Molly. Shall we finish up the game in the morning?”

Molly isn’t stupid. A flicker of suspicion lights her eyes, but then she smiles and nods, lifting the chessboard off the floor and putting it on the little chest beside the hearth. “Alright. After breakfast. Night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, Molly.” Sherlock opens the door to the boys’ dormitory hallway, a warm barrel-ceilinged space hung with dozens of copper lamps that cast an orange glow over every surface.

Sherlock’s room, now the sixth year boys’ room, is the third door on the left. The honeyed oak door gives a loud creak as he pushes it open, and he flinches, sure he’s woken someone. But no one stirs as he shuts it carefully and tiptoes across the chilly stone floor to his four-poster. Alchemy's sound asleep on his pillow. He moves the rat gently to the side so he can lie down, slips under the heavy quilt and draws the curtains shut, the message from Mycroft still clutched tight in his fist.

_What could be so important and secret that Mycroft couldn’t just write it in the letter? That he had to meet Sherlock by way of the fireplace?_

Sherlock stares up at the canopied ceiling of his bed, going over and over the possibilities, until he just can’t keep his eyes open anymore. They ache and burn from being awake so long. He rolls, curls his knees into his chest, and surrenders. At least, he thinks as he’s drifting into unconsciousness, at least Mycroft’s message drove those laughing indigo eyes from his mind. For a few hours, anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning, Sherlock awakens to the sounds of Mike and their other two bunkmates, Alaster Venable and Thom Finch-Fletchley, shuffling about getting dressed. Yawning and groggily rubbing his hands over his face, he rolls over and blinks his eyes open.

A sliver of buttery yellow sunlight slants through the bed curtains. Alchemy’s gone, probably run off on some adventure with Thom’s black rat Midnight. Stretching, he feels the crackle of parchment under his thigh. _Mycroft’s owl._

He reaches for it, still clumsy with sleep, and knocks it off the bed instead.

“Shit.” Fumbling, rubbing at his eyes, he parts the curtains and leans over the side of the bed to grab it before anyone else can be helpful and pick it up.

“Morning, Sherlock,” comes a disjointed chorus of voices, still thick with sleep.

“Morning,” he mutters thickly, ducking back into his bed with the parchment clutched in his hand, and pulling the curtains shut tight with a snap. He grabs his wand from under his pillow and murmurs _lumos_ quietly. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, the light from his wand illuminating the small space, he unrolls the message and reads it again.

Only once before had Mycroft contacted him this way, a cryptic message followed by his strangely disembodied head floating in the fireplace grate, looking as though the flames were licking right into his skin. The common room had been filled with people, being about two in the afternoon on a Sunday. When Mycroft’s head appeared, casually asking round for Sherlock, several people had screamed and run away, which Sherlock had thought pretty good fun, until Mycroft had told Sherlock that their Muggle grandad had just died and that Sherlock needed to catch the next train from Hogsmeade immediately.

Now, as then, clearly they have to discuss something Mycroft doesn’t feel comfortable writing down. Sherlock easily dismisses it being family-related - they’ve no grandparents left, no other siblings, no extended family to speak of, and his parents were both fit and healthy when he left for Hogwarts only a week previous.

Ministry, then. Has to be. Mycroft’s asked Sherlock to assist him on Ministry business before - unofficially, of course - but it’s never been anything urgent. Never been anything Mycroft couldn’t have worked out on his own if he’d chosen to. This feels...different.

Sherlock tucks his hands behind his head and stares up at the canopy, mentally running through the possibilities.

“You coming to breakfast? I’ll wait and walk up with you if you are,” Mike’s voice is muffled slightly by Sherlock’s curtains. The other two must have already left while Sherlock was ruminating.

“Yes, alright. Just let me get dressed.” Sherlock throws the curtains back, squinting at the sudden influx of sunlight, and grabs his jeans and jumper from the day before, which he’d hastily flung over his trunk. He dresses quickly, tossing his cloak around his shoulders as they set off, and tucks the parchment in his pocket. Won’t do to leave it lying around for someone to find.

The Great Hall isn’t as bustling in the mornings as it is during dinner. Breakfast - especially on the weekends - is more of a ragtag meal, people drifting in as they wake up, some students skipping it altogether. John isn’t here, Sherlock immediately registers, annoyed with himself for the disappointment that makes his stomach drop. Rolling his eyes at his idiocy, he grabs a platter stacked with toast and takes four slices. Mike pours coffee for both of them and passes Sherlock the sugar.

“So. Plans for today?” Mike pours milk in his coffee and takes a bite out of the giant pile of fried potatoes that take up half his plate.

“Not really. Library, probably, work on my Potions essay. I still haven’t begun reading the chapter on nonverbal spells for Defence Against the Dark Arts.” _Anything to avoid running into John Watson and looking like an idiot._

Mike chuckles and slathers marmalade on a slice of toast. “Anything that isn’t schoolwork?”

“Not really.” Sherlock can’t help a smile - Mike’s got the kind of laughter that’s contagious, and Sherlock _is_ aware how insular he is, how little he does anything but work. He knows, god he _knows_. He allows himself a laugh, and shrugs. “Why? What’re you doing? You sound as though you’ve got a plan.”

“Mmmm,” Mike looks up at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye and grins. He’s got a mischievous glint as he says, “Gryffindor and Ravenclaw are having a scrimmage this morning, practicing before the official season starts and all. Thought I might go down and watch. You could come with me. If you wanted to.”

Mike knows Sherlock doesn’t give a single shit about Quidditch. He’s never attended a match, not in five years at school. He shakes his head, half amused and half annoyed. “So you’ve figured it out, then.”

“Well, it was a _bit_ obvious when he said hi to you last night and your face turned nineteen shades of red and you couldn’t talk.” Mike turns a bit red himself, and grins up at Sherlock. “You should come watch him play. He’s _really_ good. Come on.”

 _Dammit_. He thinks about it for a scant moment, discovering to his shock that he actually very much wants to. Not for the sodding Quidditch of course, but the chance to see John again, maybe to talk to him like a normal person.

“Fine. But you say _one word_ -” Sherlock grabs his coffee mug a bit too hard, sloshing hot coffee all over his hand. He ignores his burning skin and narrows his eyes at Mike.

Mike’s smile turns triumphant. He draws his thumb and forefinger across his mouth like a zipper. “My lips are sealed. Promise.”

“Alright then,” Sherlock mutters, trying not to grin, despite himself.

Mopping up the spilt coffee with a napkin, he shifts his eyes away from Mike’s, down the mostly empty Hufflepuff table, and sees someone’s left their Daily Prophet. The headline reads _Disappearance No. 3 - What is the Ministry Hiding?_ , underneath which is a picture of two smiling witches with three small children who keep trying to run out of the frame as their parents patiently haul them back.

Curiosity spiking, Sherlock grabs the paper and shakes it open.

 _The disappearance of Poppy Weathersbee,_  
_the popular radio personality and host of the_  
_weekly cooking programme_ **Muggle Cooking  
******_Methods (And Why You Should Try Them)_ has  
_ignited a firestorm of controversy at the Ministry,_  
_the likes of which hasn’t been seen since_  
_the Second Wizarding War ended nearly a  
__quarter century ago._

 _Poppy is the third witch or wizard to mysteriously_  
_vanish in the last month, though the first two_  
_incidences were kept under wraps by the_  
_Department of Magical Law Enforcement until_  
_this week. Head of the Aurors, the famous Harry_  
_Potter himself, insists that the department has kept_  
_nothing from the public, but were not in fact informed_  
_of the first two disappearances themselves until  
_ _Poppy’s brought them to light._

 _“Why would I, of all people, want to hide things_  
_from the public? My entire life has been spent_  
_trying to bring transparency and truthfulness to_  
_the Ministry, to make every witch and wizard, and_  
_every Muggle, safer. My office will make available_  
_to the public every detail of these cases which do_  
_not compromise our investigations. Please be_  
_assured that we are working diligently on this, and_  
_my heart is turned entirely toward the families_  
_of the missing. We will find them, and we will bring  
_ _them home.”_

 _The others missing are Lady Caroline Haverford_  
_and Oliver Smith. Lady Haverford is a great champion_  
_of the movement to reintegrate the Muggle and Wizarding_  
_worlds, herself being Muggleborn and occupying a high_  
_rank in their system of nobility. She has long_  
_campaigned for the idea that Muggles and Wizards can_  
_\--and should-- live side by side, each one learning from_  
_the other. Oliver Smith is a longtime London bookseller,_  
_and his shop in Marylebone has become well known for  
_ _carrying Muggle titles._

 _These disappearances are frighteningly reminiscent_  
_of those which marked You-Know-Who’s rise to power,_  
_and those of his reemergence in the 1990’s. Harry Potter_  
_of course famously defeated You-Know-Who in the Battle_  
_of Hogwarts in 1998, ending the Second Wizarding War._  
_Minister Shacklebolt insists these disappearances have_  
_no connection to You-Know-Who or any former  
_ _Death Eaters still living._

 _“I can assure everyone that V*******t is well and truly gone,”_  
_said the Minister in a press conference at the Ministry on  
_ _Wednesday, showing his confidence by uttering the name._

 _“There is no evidence that links him or any of his former_  
_followers to these incidents, and I have every confidence_  
_that Harry and his brilliant team of Aurors will do their jobs_  
_and bring these witches and wizard home where they  
_ _belong.”_

 _Poppy’s wife, and former Quidditch teammate of Harry Potter,_  
_Angelina Johnson, had this to say about the controversy:_  
_“I have known Harry since we were children. I have never_  
_doubted his honesty, his diligence, his work ethic, or his heart._  
_And I know he will bring my Poppy back to our family. There is no_  
_controversy. And Poppy, if you’re out there, and can read this,_  
_the children and I love and miss you, and we will not give up  
_ _until you’re home.”_

 _The Daily Prophet would like to be as confident in the honesty_  
_of the Ministry as Ms. Johnson is. We will be following  
_ _this story as it develops._

Sherlock glances back over the article and sets the paper back down, chewing his lip thoughtfully. This _surely_ must be what Mycroft is contacting him about. But none of these people have anything to do with Hogwarts. What on earth could Sherlock possibly bring to the investigation? Suddenly waiting until 3am to talk to Mycroft seems nearly unbearable - Sherlock’s nerves are twitching with anticipation. If there’s anything he can’t bear, it’s the unknown, something he can’t explain or find an answer to.

Mike turns the paper so he can read it, and then looks up at Sherlock with a furrowed brow. “Mycroft works directly with Harry Potter, doesn’t he, Sherlock?”

“Yes. I’m sure he’s quite tied up with all that, though of course they wouldn’t quote him in an article - not when they could quote Potter instead.” Sherlock waves a hand dismissively, and drinks the rest of his coffee in one gulp. “Ready to head down to the pitch?”

Mike shrugs and stands up, his mind clearly already off the article. _Good._ The last thing Sherlock needs is his friends nosing about trying to get information about the Ministry, today of all days. No, it’s best Mike forget the whole thing.

As they walk out of the Great Hall, Sherlock makes sure to toss the paper in the bin.

***

The grounds are warm and bright, brimming with hot late summer sunshine, as Mike and Sherlock make their way down to the Quidditch pitch. The three weather-blackened metal hoops on each end of the stadium stand out against a jewel blue sky, and Sherlock can easily make out the silhouettes of the players on their brooms, in jeans and tee shirts with numbers pinned to their backs.

The stands are relatively empty, dotted with little clumps of spectators here and there. Sherlock does a quick inventory - he and Mike are the only Hufflepuffs. Everyone else watching belongs to the two houses scrimmaging. They take seats nearly at the top of the stadium, and Sherlock’s eyes are drawn immediately to John, who’s lazily drifting back and forth in front of the hoops as he instructs two of the other players about something.

He’s wearing a loose red tee shirt and dark jeans, turned up at the cuffs, and white high top trainers, one of which is tucked into the foothold on his broom. His other leg he seems to be using to steer, using it like a rudder while his hands are occupied gesturing to his teammates. His golden hair is mussed and sweaty, clinging in little tendrils to the sides of his face and the back of his neck. Every time a breeze kicks up, it blows his shirt against his body, outlining every swell of muscle, the dip of the small of his back.

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry.

John must sense Sherlock’s eyes nearly boring holes through his skull, because he turns and looks directly at him. He squints confusedly for a moment, tilting his head to the side. Then recognition spreads across his face and he grins, waving and flying closer, leaving his confused teammates hovering behind him. He stops a metre from Sherlock and absolutely _beams_ , his bottom lip caught in his teeth. _He’s beautiful_ , Sherlock thinks, before he can stop himself.

“Hey, Sherlock,” John says, his voice so soft and warm that it lights Sherlock up from the inside out. He leans forward on his broom, and drops down to eye level with Sherlock. “I didn’t know you liked Quidditch. I’ve never seen you at a match.”

“I, uh, just recently took an interest.” Oh, _god_ , his lisp is coming out, which it always does when he’s nervous. He tries to tuck his tongue down behind his teeth where it belongs.

John’s tongue darts out, licks over his bottom lip and then the top. He scrubs his fingers through his messy hair and allows the broom to sink a few inches more, so he and Sherlock are practically nose to nose. His eyes are oceans of blue, endless and wild.

“Any particular reason why?” He looks smug as hell. He _knows_.

Cursing Mike for talking him into this in the first place, Sherlock bites his lip hard enough to sting, and looks down at the toes of his trainers. “Just, um, thought I would see what all the fuss was about.”

Mike makes a snorting noise beside him and Sherlock elbows him hard in the ribs.

“I see. Well. Are we impressing you yet?”

“I’ll tell you when it’s over.” Sherlock quips, surprised at his normal smart mouth making an unscheduled appearance in front of John.

John purses his mouth, eyebrows raised, his eyes dancing with amusement. “I guess I’ll have to work a little harder, then. Tough crowd.”

“Not _that_ tough.” Sherlock allows himself a grin, caught halfway between between wanting to vault over the stands and run away, and grab John’s face and kiss him hard on the mouth. His whole body is quivering, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up.

John’s eyelashes flutter as he cocks a crooked smile. “Wait for me after? We can walk back to the castle together, and you can give me your uncensored opinion.”

Mike makes a low hum of approval that Sherlock hopes John can’t hear.

“Okay. Yes, I’ll wait.” Except it comes out as _yeth_ , and Sherlock’s face blooms scarlet in humiliation.

John doesn’t seem to notice, or he doesn’t care. His smile broadens as he puts one hand on the neck of the broom and gracefully spins it, pointing it back toward the pitch. “Great. I’ll meet you after, then.”

Mike whistles and punches Sherlock in the shoulder. “Damn, son! I didn’t know you could flirt like that. That was impressive.”

“Shut up, Mike,” Sherlock snarls, trying to sound cross and not quite getting there. He flops down sulkily on the bleacher and avoids Mike’s eyes, but his face just won’t stop smiling, no matter how much he wills it to.

Mike, who hardly ever takes anything personally, laughs and takes the seat beside Sherlock. “He likes you a lot,” he says simply, and then falls silent, allowing Sherlock his contemplations.

The scrimmage isn’t half as boring as Sherlock thought it would be, though in part because he’s completely entranced by watching John play. He’s certain no one in history has ever ridden a broomstick so effortlessly. Though Sherlock knows very little about sport in general, or Quidditch in particular, it’s obvious that John’s a natural. Not a single try gets past him as he soars back and forth in front of the hoops, batting the Quaffle away easily, using both his muscular arms and occasionally his feet. Once he bashes it with his head and it goes flying way past the rest of the players and lands on the grass at the other end of the pitch. Every now and then he catches Sherlock’s eye and waves, or does a gravity-defying upside down loop that makes Sherlock’s stomach flip over.

“Show-off.” Mike grins at Sherlock and shakes his head. “I’ve been to a million practices and scrimmages, and I’ve never seen John play like this. I mean, he’s excellent, but. He wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to work harder to impress you. He’s at the top of his game.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve nothing to compare today’s performance with.” Sherlock tries for haughty, but Mike knows him too well.

He wiggles his eyebrows and chuckles. “Don’t worry, I won’t stay after. You two can walk back up to the castle _alone_.”

“Um…” And suddenly the end of the scrimmage seems far too near.

The reality of being alone with John, even for a short ten minute walk, renders Sherlock immediately unable to swallow. He’ll have nothing to say. He doesn’t know John at all, really. All Sherlock’s interested in are books and classes and science, and he doesn’t have any idea what John is interested in, aside from Quidditch. His gaze sweeps over to where John’s standing in the middle of the pitch, his broom leaning against his chest. He’s gesturing up at the hoops and making complicated movements with his hands, surrounded by the rapt members of the Gryffindor team, their faces screwed up with concentration as he coaches them.

 _John Watson is like the sun at the centre of the solar system._ Sherlock shakes his head to dispel the absurdity of that unbidden thought. He is well and truly _besotted_ , which is nothing short of completely infuriating. No one’s ever had an effect on him like this. James Moriarty tried, god knows how he tried, but in the end Sherlock just couldn’t feel this way about him, which was the death knell for whatever friendship they’d had.

There’s never been _anyone_ before now. Before John.

The scrimmage ends abruptly with Gryffindor’s Seeker catching the Snitch, and Mike stands up, brushing off the backs of his pants.

“Alright, well, I’m off. See you at lunch?” Mike winks and doesn’t wait for an answer, jogging quickly down the stands and out of sight.

Left alone to wait for John, Sherlock doesn’t know what to do with himself. He stands up and then sits back down, watching John down on the grass, shaking hands and slapping backs, his face ruddy and his back soaked with perspiration. He looks up, for the second time that day seeming to sense Sherlock’s eyes on him, and smiles, then holds up his finger and mouths “Just a minute.”

Rather than just sit there and wait, Sherlock makes his way down to the field and hangs at the edge, waiting for the balls to be put back in their crate. Two other players carry the crate off and John finally turns to Sherlock, slinging his broom over his shoulder as he approaches.

“You waited.” He sounds vaguely surprised.

“I said I would.”

John shrugs, looking pleased. “I wasn’t sure. So. What’s the verdict?”

Everyone else from the stadium is walking in one big group, a gaggle of cloaks and broomsticks, laughter and chatter ringing out across the grounds. They turn toward the long stone stairway built into the side of the hill, and Sherlock makes to follow. But John keeps walking straight, away from the rest of the crowd, and Sherlock has to swerve to catch up with him.

“It wasn’t - horrible,” Sherlock pants, his calves burning as the climb gets steeper. They enter a little thicket of apple trees, the pale sunshine dappling in patches on the grass.

John smacks Sherlock’s arm and sticks his tongue out. “Oh, a thumping good endorsement, that! Thanks a _lot_.”

“No. I mean. I liked it more than I thought I would.”

“Which, judging from past interest, was absolutely not at all.” John’s hand brushes Sherlock’s cloak casually as they walk, their footsteps syncopated. He doesn’t seem to notice.

Sherlock swallows, trying to think of a response. “ _You’re_ quite good.”

“Ah, I’m shit, but thanks. The Keeper before me was bloody brilliant. She was Oliver Wood’s daughter, and she was probably better than her dad ever was, which is saying a lot.”

“Oh.” Sherlock tries to sound interested.

“You don’t have any idea who Oliver Wood is, do you?”

“No.”

John laughs, throwing his head back and looking inexplicably delighted that Sherlock is so clueless. He throws Sherlock a sideways glance and shakes his head. “I’ve never met anyone here who _really_ didn’t know anything about Quidditch, not past our first year, anyway. You don’t care a jot, do you?”

“Not really.”

“Well, Oliver Wood happens to be one of the best Keepers in the history of the game. He played for Gryffindor before Ron Weasley did - I daresay you know who _he_ is - ”

“ _Yes,_ ” Sherlock interjects indignantly, though he still somehow can’t seem to wipe the ridiculous smile off his face.

John goes on as if he didn’t say anything. “And Wood went on to play for Puddlemere United for years, eventually moved up to the All-England team and won two Quidditch World Cups. And Sophie - his daughter - was even better. Though she decided not to make a career of it, and became a Healer. Must be something about Keepers…”

“Oh. Are you - ”

“Yeah. I spent all June and July volunteering at St Mungo’s this summer. It was amazing. What Healers can do - I want to be like that. Help people.”

“That’s - that’s a noble profession.”

“Nothing so grand as all that. Just wanna make people feel better. Help them when they’re sick, or - whatever else. My mum - ” John trails off, his eyes fixed ahead of them.

Sherlock tears his eyes away from John’s face and follows his line of sight. James Moriarty is standing barely two metres away, twirling his wand between his fingers, head tipped innocently to the side like a curious puppy. Sherlock knows better. There’s nothing innocent about James.

“Hi, _Sherlock_ ,” he drawls, pulling his mouth around the vowel sounds as though he’s swallowing them. “Found a new friend?”

Before Sherlock can speak, John steps in front of him and sets the end of his broomstick hard into the damp ground. “Yeah, what’s it to you?”

“Oh, Sherlock and I are old chums, aren’t we, dear? I missed him on the train, thought we’d do some catching up.” James looks around the side of John’s head, his movements nimble as a snake. “He’s a protective one, isn’t he?”

“Piss off, James.” Sherlock’s in no mood for this shit, these games. “Leave us alone.”

“Fine.” James picks at a fingernail, feigning boredom, though he makes no move to leave. “John. Watson. _Hmm_. What do we know about you, let me think, let me think...Let’s see….Pureblood - ”

John steps forward menacingly, wielding his broom like a weapon. “No one uses that word anymore. That’s some old fashioned offensive bullshit, is what that is, What’s your problem? Sherlock doesn’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to talk to you. Just piss off, mate, let’s not have an issue here.”

James continues calmly as though John hasn’t spoken. “Pureblood. Your father spent a lifetime toiling away at the Ministry, but never advanced. Your mother was gifted but troubled. She should have been a superstar, should have been Minister of Magic, but...never quite could make it, could she? Had a problem with - ” He mimes drinking, and makes a glugging noise. “Died in St Mungo’s when you were only eight, didn’t she, Johnny? Did you get to visit her? Cry on her bedsheets?”

“How. How could you _possibly_ know that about my mother?” John’s nostrils are flared, his upper lip curling, his voice coming in a hard rasping whisper. His fingers twitch to his back pocket, to the wand sticking out of it.

“Oh. I know a lot of things. Useful things.” James drops his gaze momentarily and then looks up quickly, focusing his obsidian eyes on Sherlock’s. “Remember, old buddy?”

John interjects again before Sherlock can say a word. His fingers are now wrapped around his wand, but he hasn’t drawn it yet. “Look. I really don’t feel like beating the shit out of you, alright? It’ll be a right pain in the arse for all of us, so let’s just avoid it, yeah? You go off and bother someone else, and Sherlock and I’ll go up to the castle together, and everyone’s happy.”

There’s a beat of stillness, the tension in the air thick and heavy. Sherlock’s barely breathing.

Then James shrugs and the tension drops out his stance. He tucks his wand in his pocket and ambles past John with a smirk before turning back to look at Sherlock. He leers, his eyes on John, and mouths _Nice arse_.

Sherlock stares him down, unwilling to look away.

James shrugs, but to Sherlock’s satisfaction, he blinks first. “Ah, well. There’ll be _plenty_ of time to catch up later, won’t there, Sherlock? Toodles.”

“What the _fuck_ was that all about?” John breathes, watching James saunter down the hill. He shifts his gaze to Sherlock as his fingers uncurl from his wand.

 _Humiliation_. That’s what it was about. It was about embarrassing Sherlock in front of someone who might possibly be more to him than James had been. It was petty and cruel, two things at which James excels. And it had worked. Sherlock can barely look John in the eye - all he wants to do is sink into the ground and never emerge.

“If that piece of shit thinks he can get away with talking about my family like that - I don’t even _know_ him. All that Pureblood rubbish, what the fuck was he playing at?” John’s fists clench reflexively as he paces the distance between two massive old oaks, his shoulders tight.

“I’m - I’m really sorry. It’s my fault, James - he only did that because you’re with me.” Sherlock’s voice quivers embarrassingly, and he falls silent.

“Hey,” John murmurs softly.

He crosses to where Sherlock’s standing and hesitates, then there’s pressure on Sherlock’s forearm. John’s fingers touching, just that much, his thumb against the inside of Sherlock’s wrist. No one has ever put their fingers in _exactly_ that place on Sherlock’s body. No one. Just John.

“Hey,” John says again.

Sherlock looks up, and John’s face is very close. His eyes are crinkled around the edges and so gentle it makes the tension in Sherlock’s stomach uncoil enough that he can breathe again.

“What?”

“None of that was your fault. Alright?” John says again, his voice no more than a whisper of wind between tree branches. His thumb rubs a line down to Sherlock’s wrist. “He’s just a wanker. Let’s forget it happened, yeah? We were having a nice walk before that, weren’t we?”

“Yeah, we were.”

“Alright, well then. Fuck him. Never happened.”

Sherlock can’t help the smile that sneaks onto his face as John looks up at him from under his lashes, his eyes shimmering again with mirth. The lovely feel of John’s fingers on his arm disappears as John steps away and begins slowly walking backward up the hill. He beckons Sherlock to follow.

“Now what were we talking about?” John says, turning to face forward as Sherlock falls into step beside him.

“You wanting to be a Healer.” _Because I already remember every single word that falls from those lips_.

“Right. Well, what about you?”

“I’m going to be an Auror, like my brother.”

“Really? That’s - that’s really cool. You’ve certainly got the brain for it, Mr Top of the Year.”

“Thank you. I hope so.” Sherlock doesn’t tell John all his worries, that he won’t be as brilliant as Mycroft, that he’ll disappoint him somehow, that he’s not as clever as everyone thinks he is.

He doesn’t say any of that. He just smiles, and John smiles back with soft eyes that make Sherlock feel quiet inside. Quieter than he’s ever felt.

They skirt round the western corner of the castle, taking a winding path down to the lake, where the giant squid is lazily breaking a log apart with its tentacles, and then back around the main building to trace the shadowed edge of the Forbidden Forest. The conversation flows more easily as they meander the grounds, talking about the friends and acquaintances they have in common, about school.

By the time they’ve come full circle and ended up at the foot of the wide stone stairs that lead into the entrance hall, Sherlock knows that John’s gifted at Potions and terrible at Arithmancy, that he and Rose used to take baths together when they were infants, that he can’t stand pumpkin juice but could drink butterbeer until he pops, and that he’s a night owl, like Sherlock.

John sighs and chews his lip, looking regretful. “I’ve really got to go get a shower before lunch. I’m all - ”

“Sweaty?” Sherlock blurts out, and immediately bites his tongue. _Idiot_.

But John laughs, a tinkling joyful sound that lodges itself somewhere in the vicinity of Sherlock’s heart.

“Yeah. Sweaty.” John flicks his eyes down, and then looks up at Sherlock almost shyly.

“That’s - fine. I have to work on an essay for Potions, anyway.”

John rolls his eyes. “Oh, shit, I do too. I had completely forgotten. That’s my afternoon, gone.”

“And mine.”

They exchange a look, something settling between them. Something that means _mine_. Sherlock’s never wanted to kiss anyone before, not really, but he wants to kiss John right now, see what those pink lips feel like pressed between his own, taste the salt on John’s skin. A blush blooms across his cheeks, he can _feel_ it, and he breaks eye contact, casting his gaze down to the flagstone path. He watches John push a pebble around in circles with the toe of his shoe.

“Well. I guess we’d both better get on that. But. Listen. I had a really, _really_ nice time talking to you. Maybe we could. Hang out? Some other time?”

Sherlock swallows, or tries to. There doesn’t seem to be any saliva left in his mouth. _Did John just ask him out?_ He honestly doesn’t know. He opens his mouth several times, gaping like a fish, before he can conjure up any words.

“I - I would like that,” he manages lamely.

John’s smile broadens. “Good. I would too. Maybe - it’s a Hogsmeade weekend. Do you want to walk down with me?

Sherlock just nods, knowing his face is absolutely glowing with the ridiculous grin that’s making his cheeks tingle.

“Perfect. Meet you at breakfast tomorrow then?”

Sherlock nods again, fighting the sudden and strong urge to giggle. This is _intolerable_.

“Alright, well. Better go. Good luck with the essay.” John waves and turns away, begins to climb the stairs into the castle.

“And you.”

“Bye, Sherlock.” John seems reluctant to leave, pausing to turn and smile at Sherlock with every step he takes.

Finally, with a wink, John disappears inside the castle. Sherlock watches him through the sliver of open door, until he’s left alone and more than a little bit overwhelmed. Needing to process everything that happened in the last hour or so, he sinks down on the steps with his chin in his hands, and stares off across the rippling lake.

John. It seems to be the only word left in his head. He likes the shape of it, how it tastes when his mouth forms the sounds. _John_. The dullest name imaginable, for the least dull person Sherlock’s ever met. John is _compelling_. Sherlock wants to - needs to - know every single thing about him. He wants to take John to all his favourite places in Muggle London, show him the museums and the cafes, take him to Waterstone’s and sit on the floor reading together, their knees touching. He wants to touch that golden hair and see if it’s as soft as it looks. He wants John’s nose sliding up the side of his own, and his mouth -

“Whatcha thinkin about there, gorgeous?”

Sherlock blinks, snapped out of his reverie, and squints up into the sun. Rose’s frizzy halo glows crimson in the bright light. She grins and slides next to him on the steps.

“Oh. Um. My Potions essay.” Sherlock knows she won’t believe him, but it’s the first thing that comes to his mind.

“Uh huh. That essay must be pretty cute, because you looked like you were think about something _naughty._ ” She leans into him, grinning, eyebrows raised.

“Shut up.” Sherlock elbows her in the side and she laughs.

“Mike already told me you were with John. So, how’d it goooo?” She lays her head against Sherlock’s shoulder and prods him in the thigh with her fingers. “Come on, spill it.”

Sherlock loves Rose, he’s never had a friend he’s so close to, with whom he shares so much of himself. But not this. Not John. This feels too delicate; a new leaf unfurling, its edges too easily torn. He needs to hold this gently, keep it safe.

“No,” Sherlock says simply, and gets up. “Hungry?”

Rose looks perplexed, and perhaps a bit hurt, but she recovers quickly. “Sure. And then I really have to get to some homework.”

“Same.” Sherlock tucks his arm through Rose’s, and smiles down at her in some sort of apology for not being able to share this with her. He hopes she understands.

***

The rest of the day passes uneventfully. Rose and Sherlock head to the library after lunch, and claim a prime spot at a scarred walnut table under an open window. Eventually Mike and Molly join them, arms already full of books. The four of them study and write in near silence for hours, although occasionally Sherlock feels eyes on him and looks up to see Rose watching him thoughtfully.

By the time they gather their quills and parchments and head down to dinner, the sky is growing dark, the ragged black outline of the Forbidden Forest illuminated by the setting sun. They drop books and bags in the dormitory and then thunder into the Great Hall with the rest of the school. The cavernous room echoes with laughter and chatter, with the clinking of silverware against pottery.

Sherlock helps himself to cold cheese and apples, and waits for dessert to appear. As he’s pouring a glass of iced pumpkin juice, John strolls into the hall with his usual cadre of admirers. He looks immediately toward the Hufflepuff table, spots Sherlock, and his face softens. He waves and smiles, and Sherlock reciprocates, his stomach fluttering.

“You’re about to pour pumpkin juice all over the table, lover boy,” Rose teases quietly, taking the pitcher from Sherlock’s hands.

“Oh. Thanks.” Sherlock doesn’t take his eyes away from John as he sits down at the Gryffindor table with Albus and Greg, and begins piling his plate with food.

Throughout dinner, their eyes meet frequently, and every time they do, it’s as though Sherlock’s entire body is alight. His limbs go wobbly, his head floaty light. Sherlock eats mechanically, knowing somewhere in the back of his mind that he’s hungry, but his entire focus is solely on John.

As the puddings magically vanish from their plates, and the room begins to clear, John mutters something to his group, who all unabashedly look in Sherlock’s direction, and then leave without John, who stretches casually and ambles over to the Hufflepuff table.

“Hey.” John looks well scrubbed and a little sleepy, blonde end of the day stubble rough along his jaw, his blue eyes puffy. He grins down at Sherlock crookedly and then looks to Mike and the rest. “Mind if I steal Sherlock for a bit?”

Sherlock wills himself not to blush.

Rose makes a snorting sound and slaps Sherlock on the back as she gets up. “I think you already have, Watson.”

“Cheers,” John winks at her, smug.

Molly, Mike, and Rose head back to the Hufflepuff dormitory, and Sherlock turns back to John.

“I thought we were going to Hogsmeade tomorrow, not hanging out tonight.”

John looks vaguely affronted, though mostly amused. “Oh _shit_ , thanks for the reminder, yeah definitely don’t want to hang out twice in a weekend, that would just be weird. I’ll just piss off back to Gryffindor Tower, then…”

“I didn’t mean that,” Sherlock says, a panic rising in his chest at the thought of John leaving.

“I know. I’m just being a cock.”

“Oh.” Sherlock _almost_ feels like an idiot, but John’s warm smile doesn’t allow room for it. “Alright, then where are we going?”

“I don’t know. I just know we have an hour until we have to be back in our dorms, and I’d like to spend it with you. If that’s alright?” John’s voice is husky and low, and it sends shivers down Sherlock’s spine.

He manages to nod, somehow, even though his brain has gone completely blank.

It’s a cool, damp night. The summer is beginning to give over to autumn in the way that it does in the green places of the world, leaving in its wake the smell of wet earth and fallen leaves. The sky glitters with stars - Sherlock forgets how much he misses them when he’s in London, and he looks up with a sigh.

They walk down to the edge of the lake and John stoops to pick up a flat rock, skip it across the surface. Sherlock watches the ripples spreading out, disappearing into stillness. They stand in silence for long minutes, though it doesn’t feel in the least awkward.

“Did you finish your essay?” John finally says, his voice strangely loud in the hush.

“Almost. Another few inches. You?”

“Yeah, I finished. Yours is probably better.”

“Probably,” Sherlock agrees, shrugging.

John bursts out laughing, and after a minute, Sherlock joins him somewhat confusedly.

“What?”

“Just...you. The way you talk, the things you say. I’ve never met anyone like you. You’re so - _real_. I like that.” John swallows, and looks suddenly serious. He blinks a few times and licks his lips, scratches the back of his neck nervously. “I like. You. I really like you, Sherlock.”

“I - I like you, too.”

John takes a step forward, so the toes of their shoes are nearly overlapping. Their noses are inches apart, John’s head tilted up to look into Sherlock’s face. His eyes look like the sky.

“We have to go back,” John whispers, though his gaze has dropped to Sherlock’s mouth.

A silvery warmth spreads through Sherlock’s back, feathering out across his shoulder blades and up into his hair. John’s eyes are _stars_ , and Sherlock can’t look away.

“Watson? Holmes?”

A familiar voice sounds behind them, and they break apart as though there’s been an explosion. John stumbles over a rock jutting out of the ground, and Sherlock grabs at his shirt to keep him from falling, which knocks him off balance, and they both end up sprawled across wet sandy earth, limbs tangled, looking up into the curious face of Professor Neville Longbottom.

“Yes, Professor?” John manages, extricating himself from Sherlock somehow and hauling them both to their feet. He’s suppressing laughter, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“What are you two doing out here? Curfew began fifteen minutes ago.” Professor Longbottom’s normally cheerful face is now suspicious. “Go on, get to your dorms.”

***

Followed all the way to the entrance hall by Professor Longbottom, Sherlock doesn’t have the chance to say anything more than, “See you tomorrow,” to John, as he ascends the staircase up to Gryffindor Tower.

He climbs through the barrel into the Hufflepuff Common Room and finds it bursting with people, at least two radios blaring music, and suffocatingly hot, with a fire roaring in the fireplace. Mike, Molly, and Rose are draped over squashy chairs in the corner by the doorway to the girls’ dormitory. Unable to deal with his questioning friends or the voices of fifty people talking, laughing, playing Gobstones and Exploding Snap, he sneaks along the far wall and escapes into the boys’ dorm hallway, and finally is able to shut himself in the silence of his bed.

Alchemy’s waiting for him, half awake, curled in a ball on his pillow.

“Hello, you,” Sherlock says softly, ridiculously glad to see his stalwart little friend. They’re not usually apart from each other at all during holidays, and it always takes Sherlock a few weeks to adjust to Alchemy spending time away from him at school.

He peels off his slightly damp, dirty jeans, and climbs into bed in a tee shirt and boxers. Alchemy immediately runs up his arm and tucks into his neck, sniffing and pawing at him.

“I missed you, too.”

He’s got over five hours until he’s due to meet with Mycroft. His eyes feel heavy, and he decides a nap can’t hurt. He sets his alarm for 2:45am, and sleepily pulls the blankets over himself, letting Alchemy make a nest of his hair as it spreads against the pillow.

His eyes feel sandpaper rough as he blinks them open in the pitch blackness of his curtained bed. Something’s ringing. Bells. He’s so groggy with sleep, he’s about to just roll over and ignore it when someone’s voice mumbles “Who’s fucking alarm is going off?”

Oh, _shit_. His alarm. _Mycroft._

Stumblingly, mumbling apologies at his roommates, Sherlock crawls out of bed and slaps his alarm off, then drags himself to the common room. He’s shivering from head to toe. Luckily someone’s left a throw over the back of one of the chairs around the hearth, and Sherlock grabs it and wraps it tightly around his shoulders. He curls up in the chair, knees to his chest, and waits for Mycroft.

He’s just begun to nod off again when the fire suddenly crackles to life. Mycroft’s head appears, red and black like embers, hovering just above the grate. He looks _exhausted_ , hair dishevelled, pronounced bags under his eyes, as though he’s not properly slept in weeks.

“Ah, Sherlock. Wasn’t certain you’d make it.”

“Of course I did,” Sherlock yawns, his ears popping. “What’s so important that you needed to drag me out of bed in the middle of the night?”

“Nice to see you too, little brother.”

Sherlock softens. He does miss Mycroft.

“It _is_ good to see you. You look terrible.”

“Thank you, I am aware. This is the result of sleeping in one’s office for several weeks and not consuming anything but chips and butterbeer for nearly as long. Things are dire, Sherlock.”

“So it would seem.” Sherlock pauses and leans forward, lowering his voice. “What do you need with me?”

“I need - eyes and ears at Hogwarts.”

“Alright. What for?”

“We believe - well. You’ve read about the disappearances, I assume?”

“Yeah. Saw the Prophet this morning. I suppose Potter isn’t happy about Angelina Johnson's wife Poppy - since Johnson is an old friend of his.”

“No. He’s not happy. Not at all. All the disappearances seem to be connected to people with Muggle families, or who were friendly with Muggles, et cetera. A rash of Muggle killings doesn’t look good for the Ministry, or for Harry personally.”

“So you think these people are all dead?”

“It’s certainly possible. _Probable_ , even. Fully trained adult wizards don’t often go missing for weeks on end just to have a quiet holiday.”

“True.” Sherlock slips completely off the chair and tucks his legs underneath him, bending down close enough to Mycroft that he can feel the heat coming off of him.

Mycroft’s voice drops to a barely there whisper, his eyes deadly serious. “And you know the last time people were disappearing in this manner.”

“Voldemort.”

“Voldemort. Which, of course, isn’t possible, but. There have always been lingering Death Eaters among us, those who renounced Voldemort before the end and thus escaped punishment, or those who claimed they were not acting of their own free will. It’s quite possible someone is trying to replicate the circumstances of Voldemort’s original rise to power.”

“But why? To what end?”

“We don’t yet know - though there are theories. There’s much I can’t tell you. I was authorised to get your assistance, but. This is extremely sensitive and classified information.”

“Alright. What’s all this got to do with Hogwarts?”

“We believe there may be an insider, passing information about Harry’s inner circle, his family and friends, to whomever is responsible for these disappearances. Someone close to Harry’s children, and to Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger’s children.”

“So you want me to keep an eye on this person, pass _you_ information about _them_.”

“Precisely.”

“I can do that, that’s easy. Who is it?”

“You probably don’t know him well, he’s in Gryffindor.”

“Well all the Weasleys and Potters are - except Rose - so that makes sense.”

“Yes. He, grew up with them, has been close to both families since childhood.”

“Alright, get to it. I need a name, Mycroft.”

“John Watson. John. Hamish. Watson."

It's as though all the air has left the room. Sherlock can't breathe. He stares at Mycroft, and then past him at the blackened yellow bricks of the chimney, and shakes his head.

"No," Sherlock rasps out. "No."

"Why? Do you know him? Sherlock? Do you know him?"

"Not John. No."

Sherlock falls silent, incapable of answering anymore of Mycroft's questions. Finally Mycroft's attention is taken away by someone calling to him, and he sighs heavily.

"Sherlock. I have to go. Can you do this for me, or not? This could be the making of you, in the Ministry, if you can help us crack this case."

"It's not John. You're wrong."

"Then help us prove it. You can't clear him if we have no proof."

Sherlock doesn't answer.

Mycroft looks pained. "I _have_ to go. Send me an owl, alright? Quick as you can, just yes or no."

And Mycroft's head disappears in a whirl of smoke and ash, leaving Sherlock alone.

 


	3. Lost

Sherlock doesn’t sleep the rest of the night.

He doesn’t even move from the floor for nearly an hour after Mycroft’s head disappears, leaving behind a cold grate filled with ashes, and an empty ache in the pit of Sherlock’s stomach. After twenty minutes or so, Alchemy comes skittering down the hallway, sensing Sherlock’s distress, and leaps deftly onto his shoulder, curls up, and paws comfortingly at Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock just stares into the hearth, his fingers tented under his nose, his mind a whirl of noise and clutter. He’s got to sort out what he’s going to do. Normally he doesn’t question Mycroft, not really. He teases and snarks, pretends that Mycroft’s a moron, but he’s never serious.

He knows Mycroft’s brilliant, and dependable, and certainly as intelligent as Sherlock himself. Maybe more so, in certain areas. Beyond that, he’s Sherlock’s big brother - it’s instinctive for Sherlock to put his trust in him, to believe that he’s right. Except he just can’t be, not this time. There is nothing - nothing - about John Watson that says he could be capable of spying on his friends for ex-Death Eaters. Every molecule of Sherlock’s body is screaming that this is flat out wrong.

He turns every moment with John over in his mind, from their fumbling hellos train to their almost-kiss last night. And there’s nothing. Not a hint. But then, if John was the capable spy Mycroft seemed to believe he was, there wouldn’t be hints, would there? He’d be adept at concealment, at misinformation, at hiding his true self.

But they’re seventeen. Seventeen year olds don’t spy on their family and friends for Dark Wizards. They don’t do that. They’re thinking about what to do after graduation, about essays and memorising spells and Apparating without leaving a chunk of themselves behind. They’re worried about Quidditch and N.E.W.T’s, and finding places on the grounds to kiss where they won’t get caught. Sherlock’s cheeks redden at the memory of last night, John’s face so close, his eyes dark… No. No, he can’t think about that right now. It’s distracting. 

Of course, pipes up the other side of Sherlock’s brain, that’s not entirely true. A laundry list of names runs through his mind, people that worked for Voldemort, for his followers. Voldemort himself, whose destructive and narcissistic nature had already emerged before he even got to Hogwarts. It’s entirely possible that a seventeen year old could be working toward some sinister purpose, of course it is. 

But not John. 

The first rays of sunlight begin to burn at edges of the round windows, the feet of robins and little martins jumping round outside the in the dirt, pulling up worms for their breakfast. Shit, it’s six am. Sherlock stretches and stands, joints creaking, muscles tight, and stumbles exhaustedly down the hall. He crawls back into bed, not even bothering to turn back the bedclothes, his head pounding. He’s got to get a bit more sleep before he meets John at nine to walk down to Hogsmeade. 

He needs a clear head if he’s going to be gathering intelligence,

***

When he wakes, Alchemy is gone again and the room is silent. Peeking out of the slit in his curtains, Sherlock sees three empty beds and, through the window at the end of the room, a sapphire blue sky. 

His head still aches. 

What is he going to say to John?


End file.
